“Hi, I’m Jamie,” he says, flashing a polite smile as he scans the room.
I give him a quick up-nod without standing. “Ethan Tremblay. Captain. We spoke.”
“Yeah, man. I know who you are. I’m pretty sure my college teammate still has a poster of you hanging in his childhood bedroom.”
“Oh. That’s... nice.”
There’s a beat of silence as Carter finishes scanning the room. He drops his gear at the stall across from mine, which I do not love, and starts unpacking with calm efficiency. I know I should say something welcoming. Or at least neutral.
Luckily, I’m saved from making conversation by the entrance of more players. Carter turns his back to me and starts going through his duffel.
Before I can respond, the door swings open again—this time with far more noise.
“Hello, team! You may thank your gods, goddesses, and various demonic entities, for the best goalie in the league has returned!”
Kovalenko barrels into the room like he owns the place, duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a grin the size of Lake Michigan on his face.
He makes a beeline for Carter.
“Jamie Carter! I almost pissed myself with joy when we drafted you! What a get! You should have been drafted four years earlier andsix spots higher, but I can’t say I’m sad when it means we get to play together. Alexei Kovalenko, best goalie in league, Kovy to my friends. We will be friends.”
Carter opens his mouth, closes it, and then laughs. “Good to know.”
“My stall is just here, next to you. I hope you have a good sense of humor.”
“I can always fake it. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
He winks at Alexei, who breaks into laughter.
“Ah! He is funny, too!” Alexei booms. “Excellent. I cannot have friends who are not funny. I already have Ethan. He fills the quota.”
I roll my eyes. “Glad to know I’m your charity case.”
Alexei just smirks and tosses his bag onto the bench beside Carter’s. “You’re like dependable furniture, Ethan. Old, a little scratched up, but still good to have around.”
Carter lets out a surprised laugh. I hate that it makes something in my chest twist.
“I’m thirty-one.”
“Exactly.” He grins at Carter. “Ancient.”
Carter snorts, and I feel it before I even register it—a crack in the tension. Not gone, but softer around the edges.
The locker room’s filling now—sticks clattering, gear bags thudding, greetings shouted across the space. A few of the guys give Carter a nod or quick handshake. No one’s being cold, but no one’s exactly rolling out the welcome mat either.
“Ah, boys! Great to have you all back! Welcome to the Minnesota Huskies, Carter! So good to have you here.” I hear the booming voice of our GM and, as I turn, see him shaking Carter’s hand.
Ugh. Greg just had to make an appearance this morning. I still haven't forgiven him for this choice, this draft pick that puts me so close to so much press I don't want or need.
“Mr. Winthrop, sir. Good to see you again.” Carter reaches out a hand to Greg, shaking his firmly.
“Are you all settled in, Carter? They got you at the Marriott?”
“Yes, sir. All settled.”
“Good, good. Listen, Carter, Tremblay here has been a great leader for this team. Stick by him – I know he'll make sure you get started off right. We're happy to have you as a part of this organization, son.”
Greg sure is laying it on thick. I know Carter is widely regarded as a great player, but I can't imagine Greg is really that happy to deal with everything that comes with him.
